


Quietus

by Peanutbutterer



Category: Fringe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-19
Updated: 2011-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-19 14:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peanutbutterer/pseuds/Peanutbutterer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 1.2 (The Same Old Story)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quietus

Olivia stands in front of her full-length mirror and examines her reflection; lips pressed tightly together, spine stiff with tension. She slides a hand down the front of her thigh and brushes an imagined speck of lint from a pristine pair of black slacks. She avoids considering the hollow depth to her eyes, the one she once thought she had lost.

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and lets her eyelids drift shut. The last funeral she attended was her father’s, six months ago. John had been there with her; had flown back to North Carolina, holding her hand from the moment they boarded the plane. His grip had been a comfort then, a lifeline. She can’t remember if he let go the entire trip.

She shakes off the memory and opens her eyes, turning to her dresser and the jewelry box that sits on top of it. She had been informed about the funeral three days ago. In the course of those three days she had firmly decided not to attend, to attend, and then not to attend half a dozen times over. This morning, sitting at her kitchen counter with an untouched cup of coffee in her hand and an unread newspaper laid out across the table, she had changed her mind again.

Officially, Agent John Scott will be given a hero’s burial at 3 p.m. Few there, if any, will know the truth. The bureau has his file so tightly sealed that even her classification won’t grant her access. Of course, that didn’t keep her from getting her hands on it – but she rarely lets anything as flimsy as red tape stop her.

She should have known, she admonishes herself for the hundredth time. But each time she looks back on her memories she still can’t decipher the clues. He was good at what he did. Looking at it again, she’s not sure what pains her more – the fact that he was a traitor, or the knowledge that she didn’t see it. Or that she wasn’t looking.

She clasps her necklace and reaches for her jacket. Three of her colleagues have already expressed their condolences for her loss – have said they’re _so sorry_ with that look in their eyes that tells her that while John may have been able to keep secrets, she had been failing miserably. The fact that she was in love with him had been written across her face.

She wonders what’s written across it now.

Her phone rings as she’s slipping on her heels and she finds it after the third ring. “Olivia Dunham.”

“Hey, Olivia, it’s Peter.”

She leans against the table and wraps her free arm around herself. “Hi.”

“Listen, I’m dying for some sunlight and maybe even food that can’t be delivered to a closet. Walter seems to be avoiding both of those things and, in the interest of my sanity, I think I need to avoid Walter for a bit. I was going to head out and thought maybe you’d be interesting in joining me.”

She thinks about it; considers finally walking away from John Scott completely. She could move on and move forward, leaving their past and his trail of destruction as distant memory, a faint shadow in her mind. But she knows it can never be just a shadow. It’s there, tangible. Her errors, her mistakes, her judgment. She can’t walk away from that.

She’ll have to walk toward it.

“Actually,” she looks at the clock, “there’s something I need to do.”

“Oh, okay. Well –”

“Peter?” she interrupts. “Do you have a black suit?”

“Yeah, it’s in the closet with Walter. Why?”

She grabs her keys and heads toward the door. “I could use some company.”


End file.
